Venezuela
by Assemble-the-Avengers
Summary: "...But now you need to let me patch you up. That's how we do this remember? You patch me up, I patch you up." ClintXNatasha. Post Avengers.
1. Chapter 1

Natasha gently lifted Clint's injured leg onto her chair, moving forward so that she wouldn't put any harmful pressure on it. Although, as she scanned her eyes over him, taking in the glass imbedded in his skin, the multiple cuts and bruises, dilated pupils, suggesting a concussion, and the steady swelling of his right wrist, she doubted that a slight bump would make it all that much worse.

Clint watched her take inventory of his visible injuries, worry growing quickly in her eyes. He caught her attention, looking at her with a convincing expression that she translated to mean, '_I'm ok.'_ The slight twitch of her mouth indicated that in no way did she believe him. He sighed shakily, his body tensing in effort of hiding the wince that threatened to make an appearance. Natasha could feel his leg tense behind her back, giving him away despite his attempts.

"We'll have one of…" Stark looked at each of his teammates. "Everything." He said, bringing Hawkeye and the Black Widow out of their silent conversation. The dirty, yet miraculously unscathed, waitress nodded tiredly and made her way across the restaurant, carefully stepping over the piles of debris.

Steve's head was propped up on his hand, barely managing to keep his eyes open. Bruce's eye lids were dropping quickly. Tony slouched in his chair, exhaustion quickly catching up with him. Thor stared ahead blankly, too drained to focus. Natasha leaned against the table, maintaining eye contact with her hawk. He was acutely aware of every pain in his body, the adrenaline having worn off.

Another younger waitress made her way around the table refilling everyone's water glasses. Steve thanked her, downed the entire cup and went back to focusing on staying awake. Natasha leaned forward, grimacing as her entire body protested to the action, grabbed Clint's glass and handed it to him, doubting he could move painlessly, and not wanting to find out. He raised an eyebrow in thanks as he took it from her.

When their meal arrived, everyone ate their Shawarma quietly, slowly. Natasha placed the basket of unknown food on Clint's lap, watching slightly amused as he inhaled the entire sandwich-like wrap. Her faint smile faded instantly as she realized that Loki had probably never fed him. He definitely hadn't let him sleep, that much was clear by the dark circles under his blue eyes.

Tony threw a french fry at the Captain when his cheek finally slipped off his fist and into his sandwich.

"Right, I think we're done here." Bruce mumbled pushing to his feet. Tony slapped a crinkled one-hundred dollar bill down onto the table as he stood, walking over to the Captain. "Thor?" Bruce called, nodding toward Steve. The god nodded once and stood behind Tony as he tried unsuccessfully to wake their teammate.

"Plug your ears." Natasha instructed everybody. They did as instructed, watching in confusion as she pulled a gun of the holster on her thigh. She fired it into the nonexistent ceiling, sliding the gun back in its holster as the Captain flinched awake.

"It's just us, Captain. You ready to get out of here?" Bruce asked. The man nodded drowsily as he got up from his chair. His knees buckled and his hands came crashing down onto the table to steady himself. Tony stepped up under the Captain's right arm, and Thor came up on his left. Between the two of them, they managed to keep the super soldier upright until they reached the tower, where he collapsed in a heap of exhaustion, blood and bruises.

Natasha glanced warily at Clint before getting off her chair and carefully lowering his left leg to the ground. She helped him to his feet and got under his left arm.

Once the assassins stepped off the elevator, Tony quickly waved them towards a pair of bedrooms down at the end of the hallway. Ignoring the second bedroom, they made their way to the closest one. She leaned him up against the wall while she dragged the desk chair into the oversized bathroom.

"Easy." She warned, helping him lower himself into the expensive looking chair. Clint let his head fall back and his eyes close as he fought to keep his breathing even through the pain. "List 'em." She ordered as she pulled the first aid kit out from under the sink.

"A couple of seriously bruised ribs, concussion, not sure with my right wrist, crashed through a window, and I think my knee's fractured." He listed immediately. Natasha sucked in a breath as she rose to her feet. "How bout you?" ignoring him, she dropped down, pulling the zipper down on his vest. He flinched as she eased it off his battered body. She undid the Velcro on his Kevlar vest next, eyes widening as she took in his black and blue torso. "I got rammed by a couple Chitauri. I'm fine, Natasha." He promised, tilting her head up so that she had to look at him.

"Take these. Now." She demanded, emptying a few painkillers into his hand.

"They aren't gonna make a dent in any of this Tasha." He argued even as he dry swallowed them. Deciding to deal with the imbedded glass first, she fished around in the first aid kit for a pair of tweezers.

There was only one particularly deep laceration on his shoulder that required a few butterfly stitches, but other than that, she was finished relatively quickly. Then she moved onto his wrist. Upon further speculation, she decided he had only severely sprained it. Gingerly lifting his large tan hand into her small pale one, she began wrapping it tight enough to keep the swelling down. Once she had finished, she lowered his hand back down to rest beside him. Then she steeled herself enough to deal with his chest. Crouching down in front of him, she reached to press on the darkest areas. He gasped in pain, his hand flying out instinctively to grab her wrist.

"Clint…" she chastised, pulling her hand out of his grip. She offered her non dominant hand and he took it without hesitating. Their entwined hands dropped to the side, pulling painfully at Natasha's injured shoulder. She probed his ribs for another minute. "Cracked one. The others are only bruised." She muttered. "I'll get you ice when I'm finished." She promised, dropping his hand. He nodded. She undid his black belt and helped slide his cargo pants over his swollen knee. She hissed out a curse. "How'd you walk on this?" she whispered.

"You know as well as I do that you can walk on a fracture, Tasha." He sighed. She shook her head and wrapped it tightly, forcing herself to ignore his flinching.

"My turn." Clint fixed her with an insistent look that she knew meant that she would lose the argument in the end. That didn't mean wasn't going to argue anyway.

"No, Clint, I'm fine. Get in bed before you do _more _damage to yourself." She scowled. He saw something flicker in his eyes that he rarely saw, but he had seen it enough, every time he pulled out of a coma, to recognize it; _fear._

"I'm sorry I scared you, Natasha. But now you need to let me patch you up. That's how we do this remember? You patch me up, I patch you up. So please sit down, and cooperate." He ranted softly. She grumbled something unintelligible and sat down on the edge of the bathtub. "List 'em." He repeated, looking her over.

"Dislocated shoulder, sprained ankle, energy burn on my right side…." She trailed off. "Think that's it."

He motioned for her to get out of her cat suit. She slid out of it, wincing when the fabric ripped away from the bloody burn on her side. Clint's jaw clenched when he saw the painful looking abrasion. He dragged his eyes away from it to meet her eyes. "Shoulder first?" he checked.

"Shoulder first." She agreed. He gripped the forearm of her injured arm, positioning _his _injured hand firmly against her bare waist. He looked at her in asking if she was ready. She nodded once, holding his gaze as he pulled her arm back into place. She bit down on her bottom lip as relentless pain shot up and down her arm. He lowered her arm down to her lap before helping her lift her leg onto his lap so that he could wrap her ankle. Clint took a strip of gauze and folded it into a square, wiping at the energy burn in attempt to get as much blood and dirt away from the injury as he could. As he massaged burn cream into the wound, he tried to ignore her fingers digging into his good shoulder; she needed a pain outlet just as much as he had. He sprayed antiseptic over another piece of gauze, pressing it firmly against her side before taping it down. She glanced at him thankfully, before standing and helping him to his feet.

They climbed into the bed, facing each other. Clint watched her curiously as she stared blankly at his eyes. He had a feeling he knew why she was doing what she was doing, but he chose to ignore the part of his brain claiming that she was hoping his eyes would turn bright blue again. Suddenly, the memory of a deep purple bruise on her stomach that he had noticed but hadn't paid much attention to resurfaced. He pushed up on his good arm, ignoring the pain that came from his ribs with the action. Flipping her over on her back, he ran a hand over the bruise.

"Natasha…" he breathed. She tensed, praying that he wouldn't ask, because she couldn't lie to him. "I… I did this, didn't I?" he traced over it with a feather light touch.

"No. Loki did." She answered fiercely.

"But it was my fist." He prompted.

"Yes." She answered quietly. He fell over on his back, running a frustrated hand through his hair and over his face. "Clint…" she called, getting on her knees. "Clint Barton, look at me." She demanded, waiting until she could see his blue-grey eyes. "Loki did this, to me, to you. He used _magic_ to take over your brain." Clint flinched. "So tell me how this is your fault. What you could've done to prevent any of this."

"If I'd been stronger…" he started. Natasha's eyes flashed precariously.

"Stronger? Clint, if you were any stronger you'd might as well be a super soldier. So stop feeling sorry for yourself, and come back to me. I've come close enough to losing you enough for one week." She ordered angrily, desperately trying to keep the pleading tone out of her voice. Clint nodded hesitantly. She knew he hadn't stopped blaming himself, but he had for now. She'd deal with the next breakdown when it came. She settled into the mattress beside him, the sound of her partner's beating heart lulling her to sleep.

Their wake-up call didn't come until 4:30 the next afternoon. Jarvis informed them that Director Fury demanded their audience, in the living room. Natasha could imagine Tony's anger at the realization that the man was in his tower without his explicit permission. Clint's still tired blue eyes met her green ones and they smiled ironically; they knew better than most that this job never ended. Both were even sorer than they had been the night before.

All of Clint's weight was suddenly distributed on Natasha when his knee buckled after helping him off the bed. They stumbled back into the window, causing the glass to quiver.

"Sorry." He apologized, shifting his weight back onto his own two feet. "You ok?" he asked quickly. She looked at him disbelievingly, to say '_Seriously?'_

"Yes, I'm fine, Clint." She assured him, even as she rolled her hurt shoulder. "Really." She promised, noticing his guilty look. They dressed and headed out into the communal living room to see a shirtless Steve Rogers sitting at the bar, hands pressed to the heavy bandaging around his bare stomach.

"Chitauri got a few hits in with those energy rifles." He explained. Natasha smiled sympathetically.

"Know how it feels." Her hand came to touch her own bandaging subconsciously. Bruce stood completely unharmed against the wall. A slightly bruised Tony sat on the couch, glaring at Nick Fury who stood by the door. Pepper sat quietly by Stark, playing with his hand. "Ms. Potts," Natasha greeted.

"Call me Pepper, Natasha." The strawberry blonde insisted. Natasha nodded respectively.

"Where's…" Clint started.

"Thor is with Loki." Fury answered the oncoming question. "You are all required to attend Loki's send off at 1700." Clint tensed. "Excluding Ms. Potts, of course." He added.

"Director," Natasha was prepared to argue for Clint's sake.

"I understand that this will be difficult for some of you," he said, sending a fleeting suggestive glance at Hawkeye. "But it's not open for discussion. After this, you're all on one-week leave." He said informatively.

"Yes sir." Natasha responded. Fury turned on his heel and left.

Clint sat on the bed, staring distractedly at the floor. Natasha stood by her duffel bag, pulled out a pair of black skinny jeans, a red tank top, and a black tee shirt, and changed into her selected outfit. She hissed in frustration when she tweaked her shoulder painfully. Walking over to where Clint's bag had been deposited on the floor, she leaned over it and picked a pair of black jeans and a red tee shirt before throwing them at her lost in thought partner. Clint looked up as two articles of clothing flew at him.

"Thanks." He called after her as she made her way to the bathroom. Clint pulled his black jeans over his wrapped knee, and what may as well have a muscle shirt over his head. "Hey Tasha…" he called. Before he could finish the request, his belt she had removed yesterday landed on the bed. He smirked as he reached over to pick it up, ignoring the protest from his ribs. He pushed himself off the bed, walking toward his open duffle bag. He searched through it for his watch, fastening it on the wrist Natasha hadn't wrapped. Flexing his wrist, and judging the amount of pain he was willing to tolerate versus giving Loki the satisfaction of seeing him hurt, he quickly unwrapped it, tossing the dressings in the trashcan. Leaning against the wall, Clint pulled his well worn combat boots on, tucking the laces into the top of the shoe. Natasha frowned at his wrist, but she could guess why he'd done it so she kept quiet. "Oh, two inch heels and a sprained ankle. That's sure to end well." Clint said sarcastically. Natasha shrugged her left shoulder.

"Worn taller with worse." She argued, shutting him up. "Sun glasses," she tossed his dark aviator glasses to him.

"Jacket," he replied, tossing her tan leather coat in the air. "I say," he said stepping closer. "That we go to Paris for our week off." He suggested.

"Rome." She purred in his ear. By the way his heartbeat quickened beneath her palm, she knew she'd just won the argument.

"Ok." He agreed easily, smiling a smile she hadn't seen in while.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Yeah." He lied, while his eyes screamed '_No._' She took his hand in response. '_I'm not going anywhere.'_ He seemed to relax more after that.


	2. Chapter 2

Natasha put the car in park and glanced over at Clint one more time, he had spent the entire drive staring out the window. She squeezed his hand once more, to get his attention and reassure him. His lip twitched upward in a half smile. Clint reached around his chair and grabbed his jacket off the backseat, shrugging it on as he and Natasha climbed out of the grey SHIELD car Fury had left them.

The team surrounded Thor and Loki; who's hands were chained together and who's deceitful mouth was silenced with a metal muzzle that made him look unbelievably ridiculous. Dr. Selvigg stepped up to Bruce with a clear tube, holding it out in front of him. Banner dropped to one knee in front of the silver case Tony had brought. He flipped it open, staring at the blue cube inside. He carefully got a tight hold on it with what looked like high-tech tongs, and placed it in the container Selvigg held. The Captain stared at it hatefully, more than happy to see Hydra's secret weapon going somewhere where it would never be taken into the wrong hands again. Thor gripped his friend's shoulder in goodbye, taking the tube from him and backing into position beside his brother. Natasha could feel the tension rolling off her partner in waves as Loki glared at him. Clint stared right back, the slight tremors running through him completely invisible to those who didn't know him like Natasha did.

"The muzzle's hardly an improvement." She whispered in his ear. He granted her a small smirk as she leaned away again. Thor nodded solemnly to each of his teammates, before looking sadly at his brother and turning the ornate golden handle on the Tesseract's container. Bright blue light surged up each god's arm, coursing through their bodies and shooting up into the sky. Selvigg, Tony, Bruce, Steve, Natasha and Clint backed away, craning their necks to watch the hero and villain vanish. As they looked back down to where they had stood moments before, all that remained was a faint blue cloud of Tesseract energy. Tony headed back over to his burgundy Acura, waiting for Bruce as the other scientist collected his bag from Natasha. Steve shook hands with Tony before getting on his motorcycle and speeding off toward Brooklyn. Stark and Banner took off in the other direction, back to the tower.

The two assassins dumped the company car in an alley near their apartment that they rarely got a chance to use, swinging by their New York safe house. It had been one of the first safe houses they'd established, third to Argentina and Madrid. They quickly stuffed their duffel bags with a few changes of clothes, their toiletries, and Clint's compacted bow and arrow.

"We leave on American Airlines, flight 409 at 7:30 tonight." Natasha called from her spot at the mahogany desk by the computer. He nodded in acknowledgement.

"Scarlett Denea." He told her, tossing a wallet in her direction. She caught it effortlessly, thumbing through her new identity. It took her all of three minutes to have it memorized back to front.

"And you are?" she asked, turning her attention back to the computer.

"John Garrot." He answered, stuffing his own wallet in his back pocket. Natasha hummed an affirmative response, shut down the desktop, grabbed her bag and spun around to face her partner. "Ready?" She nodded. Clint held his hand out to her and she took it immediately, letting him lead her out to the car.

As 'John Garrot' and 'Scarlett Denea' walked away from the security checkpoint, they wordlessly split up, Clint going to the bookstore to find a book for each of them, and Natasha to the food court. Clint stood in front of the countless rows of books, skimming quickly through each row and keeping an eye out for the series he had got Natasha hooked on years ago. Eventually he came across her favorite series, immediately reaching for the fourth book, Bourne Legacy, picking up the latest copy of the Guns and Ammo magazine for himself. He paid for both, heading in the general direction of the food court, waiting for Natasha. He reached the dining area of the airport, leaning against a pillar directly across from the exit. Minutes later, he caught sight of her unmistakable red hair.

"What gate?" he asked, following her as she took off in the opposite direction.

"C11." She replied, slowing down a little as she reminded herself that she was on vacation. There was no mark they were after, no deadline they had to meet and no Nick Fury they had to check in with.

Once on the plane, they took their seats towards the front of the first class section. Natasha leaned over her small backpack, pulling their lunch out of the bag. She handed Clint his hamburger even as she unwrapped her turkey sandwich. They ate quickly, paying no attention to the all too peppy flight attendant standing at the front.

"You holding up ok?" he asked as she winced slightly when the seat belt pressed against her burn wound. She shrugged, glancing at his immobile wrist. "It's seven hours. I can wait till we land, you?" he checked. She nodded. He pulled his backpack into his lap, searching through it until he found the book he'd gotten her. He tossed it in her lap, smirking at her muted excited expression.

"спасибо." She murmured sincerely, as she flipped it open to the first page. The red head looked up as her partner expertly stifled a yawn, narrowing her green eyes at him. "Get some sleep." she suggested. He shook his head.

"Don't need to." He mumbled, pulling a thick magazine out of his bag. She glanced at the dark circles below his eyes, sighing incredulously and turning her attention back to her book. "Hey Tasha, do you know where…" he started. His iPod was immediately pushed into his hand before he could finish the question. "Where…?" he began.

"Your bedside table." She answered absently. The archer glanced at his partner out of the corner of his eye grinning a little at the sight of her completely engrossed in the novel.

The plane had only been in the air for fifteen minutes when Clint's magazine fell into his lap and his head lolled to the side, eyes closed. Natasha smiled condescendingly, leaning to the right just barely, so his head could rest on her shoulder before she let herself get lost in her book, a luxury she rarely got to experience.

Six and a half hours later, her emerald eyes shot open when a warm hand touched her shoulder. She turned her head to the right, her bright curls swinging at her shoulders, and saw Clint watching her contentedly.

"We're here." He told her quietly, nodding at the window. Without hesitating, Natasha leaned against the window looking down at Rome; the one place they had never been sent for a mission. Clint reached over and picked her hand up out of her lap, watching her body language instead of the city below. For once in the Black Widow's life she looked…_innocent_. He waited to talk until she turned her attention back to him. "Did you finish it?" he asked, referring to the book in her lap.

"Almost." She answered tiredly, letting her head fall on his shoulder. Splaying her thin fingers out on his calloused palm, he started to hum until the pilot cut him off, announcing that it was 8:21 am, and 68 degrees in Rome, before repeating the same thing in Italian. Clint shot her a half smile as she sat up and began pushing her book into her half-full backpack. She glanced at him, smirking slyly as he watched her every move.

"Nothing." He answered her coming question of what was sure to be '_what?'_ Her eyes rolled back and she huffed an affectionately frustrated laugh before relaxing back in her seat. They waited while the plane rolled into the gate.

The pilot announced that they were now allowed unbuckled their seatbelts and thanked them for flying with American Airlines. Clint and Natasha grabbed their duffle bags from the overhead compartments, pushing politely past everybody else, efficiently getting off the plane first.

Clint stood behind Natasha, smirking as she leaned over the counter, speaking in perfect Italian as she rented a car from the flustered man.

"Che cosa consiglia, signor?" she asked, smiling a fake, yet still breath taking, smile at the young man.

_What do you recommend, sir?_

"Volete un auto di basso profile, non perdere?" he asked, clearing his throat, as he looked down at the computer screen. Natasha nodded.

_You want a low profile car, miss?_

"Abbiamo una Maserati GS e una Ferrari…" he listed for her. Clint made a noise of disbelief, quickly covering it with a cough.

_We have a Maerati GS and a Ferrari…_

"Maserati?" She confirmed over her shoulder. Clint nodded enthusiastically. She signed the papers for the car and twenty minutes later she was standing beside a drooling Clint as he ran his hand along the silver car. The Russian smirked, tossing the keys to him and sliding in the passenger seat.

"_This_ is _low _profile?" he breathed incredulously.

"Drive." She ordered, turning her attention down to her Bourne Legacy book. She only paused to look up from her book when she felt the smooth rumble of the engine cut off sooner than she knew it should've. She looked out the windshield to see he had parked in front of a restaurant.

"Coming?" he grinned when she didn't move. Setting her book on the dashboard, she climbed out of the car, following Clint. He sat down in the booth, sitting opposite her as he read through the menu.

Natasha listened patiently as Clint ordered an omelet with almost every type of meat, a breakfast pizza and a cappuccino for both of them before looking at Natasha expectantly. She shook her head amusedly and turned to the elderly waitress. She ordered a croissant and a side of fruit, laughing at Clint's expression. The mockingly frustrated countenance dissipated quickly at the sound of her rare _genuine _laugh that he loved so much.

They ate slowly for the first time in a while, savoring every bite of the authentic Italian food. They stayed at the café until they'd finished their coffee, paid for their outrageously expensive meal and headed back out to their car.

By the time they reached their hotel Natasha had finished her book and Clint had become pensive again. He ignored her intense gaze, smiling half-heartedly when she finally caught his eye. The archer shouldered his backpack, taking both his and Natasha's bags into his left hand and offering his aching hand to Natasha after he locked the car. She took it gently, leading the way through the double doors of the fancy hotel.

They checked in, easily finding their suite on the top floor. The quicker the roof access, the more comfortable Clint was.

"Jeans off." Natasha ordered as she dialed the number for the lobby, asking to borrow their first aid kit. A young girl showed up at their door a few minutes later with a red box labeled _Primo Soccorso_. "Mille grazie." Natasha said sincerely as the girl walked back to the elevator. Clint's black pants lay in a heap on the tile floor of the bathroom and he sat on the edge of the bathtub in his boxers, sitting still as his partner rewrapped his fractured knee. "I wanna know how you walked on that all day." She sighed. He shrugged, waiting until she was done with his wrist to swap places with her. Redressing her wounds in turn. Then changing, they crawled into the king sized four poster bed, both falling asleep instantly, still exhausted from the last week.


	3. Chapter 3

Natasha woke slowly, wrapped in the silk sheets of their bed. She turned over on her right side to see Clint watching her through clear grey eyes.

"Morning." He muttered sleepily, reaching over to push a messy strand of red hair away from her face.

"Morning." She replied.

"Actually, it's 'good afternoon'. It's twelve o'clock." He countered, sitting up with a hand to his undoubtedly aching ribs. Natasha hummed an indifferent response, sitting up and leaning her forehead against Clint's shoulder."What do you want to do today?" he asked drowsily.

"How about we just look around." She offered quietly. Lifting her head off his shoulder to catch his response, he shrugged, smiling an _authentic_ smile, her favorite smile of his; one that held no pain, no guilt and no false happiness.

"Sounds good." He responded.

"Your knee going to hold up?" she asked, glaring at him with a look that dared him to lie.

"Yeah." He promised, tilting his head to kiss her hair.

"Ok." She allowed. With one more skeptical glance in his direction, she threw her hand to the right, vaulting herself off the bed and landing lightly on her right foot.

For the first time since they had arrived, Natasha got a good look at the suite. Their gold and ivory bed sat pushed up against the middle of the right wall, with a small bedside table on either side. Directly across from the bed, mounted on the heavily papered wall, hanging above the dark mahogany dresser, was a flat screen TV that Natasha doubted would ever get turned on. In the corner of the oversized hotel room was a tile fireplace with a small burgundy couch under the window. Above the mantle of the hearth, hung a very detailed painting of the city they were in.

Clint watched her every move, his sniper skills coming into play as he observed her. He watched her feet as they created a slight indent in the plush burgundy carpet when she walked. He watched the toned muscles in her pale legs tense with every step. He watched the way her hips swayed barely, even when she wasn't trying to catch the attention of a mark. He watched as she kneeled on the couch, leaning forward to slide the heavy looking curtain aside. His eyes zeroed in on her awed smile at the view before her. Then the light shown through the window pane, illuminating each facet of her glowing face, the whole scene before him zoomed out, letting him see the whole picture.

And it was a picture he never wanted to forget. His partner, whose emotions were normally on lockdown, was kneeling on a couch, in shorts and a tank top, looking out a window like he imagined a child would the first time they saw snow. The remarkable painting of Rome that hung above the fireplace was _nothing _compared to what he was looking at now.

Her green eyes, lit up by the sun, turned to look at him, her smile dimming down a little as she cocked her head questioningly at his far away expression. He climbed off the bed, less graceful then she had, and walked towards her, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind in a hug and rested his chin on her shoulder.

"Il bello, non e?" she marveled, in Italian because she could.

_It's beautiful, isn't it?_

He hummed his affirmative response in her ear.

She twisted out of his grasp a few minutes later, taking leisurely steps towards the bathroom. He drank in the view for a moment longer, taking the second to fully appreciate the sight without the beautiful distraction that had held most of his attention before. But soon, he found himself longing for that same distraction and he followed her to the bathroom.

Natasha leaned against the granite sink top wearing white skinny jeans, a loose dark green top, and a pair of strappy sandals Clint had _never _seen her wear, with her black Chanel sunglasses resting on top of her head, waiting for Clint to finish getting ready. Expressing her mock impatience, she drummed her fingers on the counter.

"Ok, ok, I'm ready." He called after a minute of the obnoxious sound. He walked out of the mirrored walk-in closet, smirking devilishly as Natasha looked over his outfit. The tan Bermuda shorts, and blue unbuttoned collared shirt over the white tee shirt, matched his eyes perfectly. Not that she could see his eyes, with his trademark sunglasses already in place. She huffed a laugh, grabbed his wallet off the counter behind her, shoving it in his front pocket before walking out the door ahead of him. Shaking his head, Clint jogged to catch up with her, locking the hotel door behind him.

Natasha Romanoff stood beside her partner, as they both looked up at the 2,000 year old building called the Pantheon. It was as impressive as it was old; towering above them and casting a shadow over the paved road they stood on. It was a beautiful building and the Russian red head was bored. Clint was completely awed though, always having a better eye for beauty then she did. She tolerated it for three minutes before tugging on Clint's hand and walking back the way they had come. He chuckled and allowed her to pull him away. He could tell by the way she had repeatedly shifted her weight from one foot to the other that she had been getting progressively more bored.

They visited the Cappuchin Crypt, Vatican City, the Colosseum, the Roman Forum, and the Trevi Fountain (where they spent the least amount of time because Clint got unreasonably uncomfortable being in such a tightly packed a sea of a hundred people with no high vantage point). Vatican City alone should've taken them a day, but between Natasha's attention span, and Clint's paranoia, they managed to fit all of it in before dinner.

They ate at a small, nearly empty restaurant, ordering half the menu and eating every last bite of the delicious Italian food. They stayed for an hour after they'd finished, sipping at the awful café wine, having silent conversations made up of eye movements, twitches of the mouth, shrugs and occasionally whispered Russian words. The exchanges had every waiter staring shamelessly. At 9:15, when they finally decided they had finished, they set their half finished glasses of wine on the table, and Clint waved their young waitress over with the check.

"Due fanno una coppia molto carina." She complimented, smiling as she set the check in front of Clint.

_You two make a very cute couple._

"La ringrazio, signora." Natasha replied without missing a beat as Clint signed his false last name the check.

_Thank you, ma'am._

They two assassins stood, Clint offering his hand to Natasha and they left with no intention of heading back to the hotel. They strolled through the city, repeatedly reminding each other they weren't on duty, or even on call, so there was no need to hurry.

Natasha let Clint take the lead, since he seemed to have a destination in mind. They soon found themselves at the top of the Gianicolo, overlooking the lit up city of Rome. Natasha felt her breath leave her as she stared out into the night. The hot May sun was no longer beating down on their backs, but instead the cool night air gently blew their shirts around them and Natasha's shoulder length curls swirled at her shoulders. Baking food could still be smelled as high up as they were. The stars were barely visible, owing to the city lights.

After a few minutes of silence, Clint wound one arm around Natasha's waist, pulling her against his side, tucking his head into the curve of her neck. She turned into him, resting her left hand against his chest, directly over his heart. Lifting his head, he met her bright emerald eyes.

"I love you, you know." He whispered, his lips brushing against her forehead.

"Love is for children." She responded automatically, eyes closing at his touch when he brought his hand up to her cheek.

"Forse sei un ragazzino." He said in a low voice, before closing the infinitesimal gap and kissing her.

_Maybe you are a child._

She was the first to pull away, only because she couldn't hold her breath as long as he could.

"Forse." She agreed breathily.

_Maybe._

He pulled her down on the grass next to him, leaving his arm around her shoulders. Their sunglasses and shoes lay discarded in a pile behind them.

"Will you go out with me tomorrow night?" he asked.

"What do you call what we've been doing for the last two days." She scoffed in reply.

"I'm serious, Tasha." He sighed.

"Yes." She answered suddenly, as if she'd used her last statement to buy her time to think about it. He exhaled in hardly concealed relief, kissing the top of her head and leaning back in the soft grass. She rested her head on his chest, letting her eyes close. She didn't realize how exhausted she'd been until her eyelids drifted closed and she couldn't force them open again.

"I love you too." She whispered inaudibly just before she fell asleep.

Clint's smile took up nearly half of his face as he heard the words slip from her mouth before her breathing evened out, signaling she was asleep.

He should've moved, should've carried her to the road and hailed a taxi. _Should've. _But he could bring himself to move. He got the arm that wasn't wrapped around her out of the sleeve of his blue shirt, draping it over her body, not turning back to look at the stars or the city, but watching something much more beautiful; his partner.


	4. Chapter 4

**So so so so so so so sorry. Life's been insane lately. I apologize if this chapter isnt as good as the others, but bare with me. **

**Here you go!**

It was Clint's turn to wait for Natasha. Fortunately, he excelled at waiting. The bathroom door had been closed for the last hour and a half, leaving Clint wondering how one person could possibly take this long to get ready. Their reservations were for La Pergola, at 7:45. By 7:15, Clint was beginning to think she was keeping him waiting just because she could. At 7:22 exactly, the door finally opened. The archer's jaw hit the ground as Natasha stepped out of the bathroom. The dark green dress she wore matched her eyes perfectly; the silky fabric reflected the light in the same way he knew her eyes reflected the sun. The v-neckline accentuated the darkness of the dress by showing more of her pale skin that stood out in stark contrast to the shade of green, and strappy sleeves bled into thinner strings at the back, crossing in a razor back. The mascara made her already long eyelashes cast shadows down her porcelain cheeks as she watched his reaction with rapt attention. Hawkeye rose numbly from his seat, moving towards her. Natasha smirked, reaching up to close his mouth. The assassin wanted to kiss her, badly, but he couldn't bring his body to react to his brain.

"Didn't we have reservations?" she prompted, dragging him out of his trance.

"We will probably be late, thanks to you." He scowled affectionately, only after bodily shaking his head to dispel the haze.

"Good thing you're such a good driver, then." She replied, smirking up at him. He winked at her, leaning away to grab his dress coat, purchased earlier that day, and Natasha's handbag off the desk chair.

Hawkeye must have broken every driving law in Italy by the time they reached their restaurant, on time.

Clint pulled up in front of the classy looking restaurant, threw the door of the Italian car open, and straightened his suffocating tie as he handed the car keys to the valet. He rounded the front of the car to see another man opening his partner's door. The archer grinned, leaning back against the marble pillar as he watched the helpless man. He expertly held back a chuckle as Scarlett Denea lifted her leg out of the car first, the slit up the side of the dress showing more of her toned legs than strictly necessary. Hawkeye would swear he could see drool dripping from the man's chin.

"Signora," he sputtered like a car run out of gas. Natasha rose from the passenger seat, throwing the valet a blinding smile. The moment she walked away, adding extra sway to her hips, Clint knew she was playing with the poor man. Clint took her arm, shooting a fleeting glare at the valet, laughing internally at the look on his face.

"That was mean," he chided. "The poor kid never even knew what hit him. He's going to be hung up on you for the rest of his life." Natasha shrugged.

"You're the one who scared him to death." She whispered back.

"Name?" the suddenly all too peppy concierge requested, eyes roving shamelessly over John Garrot. The man took his partner's hand as if to remind the lady that he was taken. Natasha suppressed a smirk when the woman scowled imperceptibly.

"John Garrot." Clint replied without hesitation.

"This way," she announced after surveying her list for a minute, smiling with sickening sweetness at John and glaring daggers at Scarlett. But no one had a glare as effective as the Black Widow's. Natasha fixed the blonde with a look that could level small towns; a look that sent the hostess away with her tail between her legs. Clint dropped his chin to his chest, laughing despite himself.

Clint walked ahead of the beautiful Russian, pulling her chair out for her. Natasha eyed him skeptically before she forced her concern for her usual façade away, and accepted the gesture. Clint released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding when she sat down. His calloused fingers brushed over her bare shoulder blades, and he could feel how tense she was.

"Relax Tasha." He instructed, leaning forward so his lips brushed her ear lobe when he spoke. Clint knew without looking that her rigid posture had dissipated. Sitting down he picked up his menu in his right hand, taking Natasha's thin hand in his left. She tensed at the unusual public display of affection and moved to pull away, but Clint held tight, knowing if she gave it a second, she'd be ok with it. And he was right, soon she returned the grip and began to read her menu.

"Ciao, I'm Isabella, and I will be taking care of you tonight." A young girl announced in heavily accented English. Momentarily, her eyes scrunched up like she was debating whether or not she'd said that correctly.

"Parliamo Italiano." Natasha informed the waitress, smiling at her reassuringly. Isabelle sighed in relief.

'_We speak Italian.'_

"Posso ottenere e qualcosa de bere?" she asked politely, looking much more comfortable than she had minutes before. Natasha realized that she liked this girl, she wasn't flirting with Clint, wasn't even looking at him more than she had too.

"Una bottiglia di Barolo per favore?" Clint requested. Isabella smiled, nodded and headed towards the kitchen.

'_A bottle of Barolo please?_'

In the five minutes it had taken for their server to bring their wine, Clint had removed his tie. In the time it had taken them to receive their _Petto di Pollo al Limone _and their _Linguine alle Vongole_, he had taken off his silver dress coat and hung it over the back of the ornate looking chair. And soon he had rolled his white dress shirt sleeves up to his elbows. Natasha looked her partner over, smiling subtly as he shoveled the food into his mouth. His slightly grown out hair was spiked up, his white shirt set off his tan skin and revealed his muscled arms. He sensed her gaze and looked up to the blank emerald eye's of Natasha Romanov, he cocked his head in question and Natasha just shook her head and turned back to her pasta.

The SHIELD archer leaned back in his chair once he had all but licked his plate clean. And once again, he just observed his partner. She pushed away from the table, her handbag gripped tight in her pale hand, and stood. Clint watched her curiously as she moved towards him, leaning down and kissing his cheek.

"I'll be back." She whispered. But as he looked deep into her eyes for an explanation, he knew she wasn't going to the bathroom. His shoulders fell slightly and she nodded, ghosting over to the bathroom.

Natasha took her phone call in the ladies restroom, becoming more and more agitated with Director Fury. She hung up on her boss, and slipped her SHIELD issued phone back into her champagne colored purse.

She walked back into the dining room, to see Clint standing by the table, jacket and tie draped over his arm.

"When?"

"Ten tonight." She replied with hidden disappointment. But Clint picked up on it, squeezing her hand reassuringly.

"Do they _not _understand the concept of a week off?" he growled. Natasha shrugged.

"Did you honestly think they'd make a whole week without us?" she laughed.

"No. But I _did _think they could make it for more than three days." Clint grumbled. "Where to?" he asked, all dark anger having disappeared, draping his heavy silver jacket over Natasha's bare shoulder's as they walked slowly through the parking lot, breathing in the warm Italian air.

"Venezuela."


	5. Chapter 5

Natasha left Clint in the hotel's lobby to check out while she headed up the stairs, never the elevator, to get their few belongings packed. She leant over both of their duffle bags, filling Clint's with the outfits he had carelessly tossed onto the closet floor. She had finished re-folding his clothes and moved onto hers when her phone rang again.

"Director." She greeted, fitting the phone between her shoulder and ear.

"Agent Romanoff." He replied. "Agent Marx will meet you and Barton at Location 116, at 0900," he confirmed. Natasha smirked as she heard Clint's rough breathing and careless footsteps behind her.

"Yes, sir." She replied dutifully.

"Fury out." He snapped, hanging up on his agent. With a pang of longing, Natasha realized how much she missed _Coulson _on the other end of the phone.

"Tasha?" Clint called, snapping her out of her nostalgia. She looked over her shoulder in acknowledgment. "What'd one-eye want?"

"Someone to boss around." She scoffed half-heartedly.

"I miss him too Nat." he whispered. She spun around where she kneeled, getting to her feet with agility only the Black Widow possessed. She narrowed her eyes at him, '_How did you…?'_ He raised his eye brows at her incredulously. '_Seriously Natasha?'_ She sighed; she should have known he'd notice. He walked a few small steps forward, enveloping her smaller frame in his muscled arms. Taking a shaky deep breath, she inhaled the oddly calming sent of Clint's cologne. When she moved to pull away, Clint didn't hesitate to let her go. Crouching down beside the small pile of Clint's clothes she'd left unpacked, Natasha held them out to Clint, his cue to go change. The SHIELD marksman obediently stalked into the bedroom. Natasha finished packing her clothes, leaving out her grey skinny jeans, red tank top, and SHIELD jacket, changing, zipping her bag and tossing both on the king sized bed beside Clint. "How's your burn holding up?" he asked as he laced up his combat boots. She touched the wound gingerly, just remembering about it. Clint didn't miss the wince that surfaced when her fingers came in contact with the raw skin.

"How's your knee?" she asked in attempt to brush it off.

"Sore." He answered honestly, as he pulled her down on the bed beside him. Lifting her shirt up, he carefully avoided looking at the bruise he'd caused and moved his eyes over to the angry red burn on her side.

"We'll brace it at HQ." she muttered contemplatively. He nodded in appeasing agreement. Moving her hand to hold up the hem of her bright red shirt, he peeled the gauze away, flinching at the healing injury. He smeared yet more burn cream and disinfectant over the space below her rib cage.

"Good?" he checked. She nodded, allowing him to pull her to her feet. Shrugging on his own black SHIELD jacket, and taking both bags in his hand, they left for the car, closing their hotel suit door behind them.

They made it to the field, called Location 116, at exactly 9:06. An agitated Agent Marx stood outside the Quinjet, tapping his foot impatiently on the dead grass below his aircraft. Clint rolled his grey eyes toward the clear Italian sky, looking resignedly at his partner. Seven hours, confined to a small metal container with this man was guaranteed not to be fun.

"You're late." Marx barked at the approaching Agents.

"We're well aware Agent." Natasha snapped back. He glared heatedly at the Black Widow, spinning on the heel of his shiny boots, proving he hadn't been on many missions due to their overall cleanliness, and taking his seat in the pilot's chair. Clint sighed, handing his bag to Natasha.

"I'm going to…" he began. She nodded.

"Good idea." He kissed her quickly before jogging onto the plane and sitting in the co-pilot's seat. They didn't particularly _trust _their pilot. Natasha forced an unconcerned mask to spread over her features before boarding the Quinjet.

"_I don't take very well to traitor's giving me orders_." Their pilot's shouting reached Natasha from where she had been reading the last few pages of her Bourne book. Aaron Cross reminded her of a certain archer, what with his determination and pure audacity.

"_I was only pointing out…_" Clint argued calmly.

"_You can't be trusted. Not with my plane, not with your position in SHIELD and certainly __**not**__with the Black Widow. After all, you did try to kill her._" This man's argument was hardly making sense. Still, Natasha jumped lithely to her feet, knowing that between the sheer sting of the words, and the reminder of what he'd almost done to his partner, Clint wouldn't be able to keep his temper in check.

"_You aren't exactly proving your loyalty either, Agent Marx." _Clint spat.

"I wouldn't have even been here if you hadn't gotten your handler killed." Now he was just throwing punches to the gut, not arguing. Natasha stepped up to the men in time to see the heart wrenching guilty pain that twisted across Clint's face. Natasha's arm shot out to grab the hand that the pilot had used to shove Clint in the chest.

"I suggest you keep your judgments to yourself, _Agent._" Natasha hissed, twisting the hand sharply. The pilot shrieked and he stumbled out of his chair, away from the menacing woman, to the back of the Quinjet. Natasha quickly took the yoke, patching a call into the Hellicarrier as the massive ship came into view.

"Requesting permission to land, over." She spoke, resisting the urge to comfort her partner.

"Permission granted, over. Agent Romanoff, may I ask the whereabouts of Agent Marx?" Maria Hill replied sternly.

"Denied." Natasha snapped, hovering inches above the helipad before killing the engine. She stood, shoving Clint's dark tinted sun glasses into his shaking hands, lifting their bags into one hand, and pulling her partner's hand into her other. Pausing while he numbly put his glasses in place, Natasha dropped his hand and opened the door of the Quinjet, waiting while the heavy doors slid away. "Agent Marx will require medical treatment." She told another Agent as she and Barton made their way onto the Hellicarrier. The man stared after her blankly, muttering an unheard reply.

The Black Widow pulled her partner into an empty room in med bay, rummaging through the drawers until she found a box labeled _knee brace_. Quickly strapping it around Clint's swollen knee, she pulled his jean pant leg down, pushing off the floor and sitting beside him on the hospital bed.

"Clint look at me." She begged in a vulnerable tone that had Hawkeye looking up from his lap.

"He was right." Clint swallowed hoarsely. Natasha spat a curse.

"He was anything _but _right!" she refused. "You're a good man, Clint. You wouldn't have done _any _of that if you weren't forced. Forget about that pilot! How many of these agents have had it out for you since you were recruited?" she snapped rhetorically. "They're running out of things to insult you with because there's nothing they _can _insult you for! They're grasping at straws Clint. Loki just gave them something to use." She got off the bed, kneeling in front of him again. She took his hands and forced him to meet her eyes. "They are so wrong about you, Hawk." She promised.

"Tasha…" he began, dropping his chin to his chest.

"They're wrong." She insisted. He coughed a laugh, meeting her eyes, and nodding once in temporary agreement.

"Don't we have a briefing to attend?" he said with mock formality.

"I believe we do." Natasha agreed. She couldn't help but return his smile.

**What do you think will happen in Venezuela?**


	6. Chapter 6

**I APOLOGIZE FOR THIS CHAPTER'S POOR QUALITY. I DID THE BEST I COULD WITH THE TIME I HAD. DON'T GIVE UP ON ME YET.**

"José Rafael." Fury stated, sliding a manila folder across the dark mahogany table to both the assassins. "He's been inching his way up SHIELD's wanted list for the past two years." Clint rubbed his forehead with his thumbs as he scanned over the open file. Natasha leaned forward on her elbows, staring intently at Fury as she listened to the mission brief. "Look over your brief's. Wheel's up at 0300."

"Director…" Natasha began, as she and Clint stood drowsily to leave. Clint tensed; he didn't want the answer to her oncoming question. Something akin to sympathy flashed through Fury's one good eye before his closed off mask returned.

"You will fly yourselves." He confirmed. Natasha nodded respectively, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards in the slight beginning of a smile.

"Thanks Fury." Clint said with subdued respect.

"But when you return, we'll have to discuss a replacement, Agents." Fury added gravely as they stepped into the hallway. Clint tensed at the blunt brutality of the word _replace._ Natasha nodded at him one last time before letting the heavy door close behind her.

"I don't want to replace him." Clint muttered in a heartbreaking tone that had Natasha's heart sputtering. As they walked down the grey hallway, Natasha brushed her short blood red hair behind her ear, taking Clint's stiff hand; '_I know.'_ He seemed to relax at the silent message. As they neared Clint's room, they passed by Marx who's wrist was braced and who's glare was met by Natasha's, sending him continuing down the hall without a word.

Clint's nearly empty SHIELD quarters looked the same as hers; a small window with heavy blinds, an uncomfortable couch against the same wall, a small bed opposite it, and a simple bathroom attached consisting of a sink, shower, toilet and closet.

The archer nodded toward the bathroom, letting her go first. Neither wanted to be alone tonight; both hadn't spent a night apart since the battle for Manhattan.

Natasha eyed him warily before dropping the brief on the dull comforter, and disappearing into the dreary bathroom. Clint waited for the sound of the shower before collapsing on the bed, staring intently at the packet Fury had given them, committing each and every detail about Jose Rafael to memory.

"What's his play?" Natasha asked as she emerged from the bathroom. Clint looked up from his file. The creases in his forehead smoothed out when he saw her. She was dressed in his old faded SHIELD tee shirt and black gym shorts. Her bright red hair was dripping wet, making it appear more brown than red. She sat down cross legged at the foot of the bed, pulling the open folder into her lap as she towel dried her hair.

"Julien Santos has nuclear launch codes…" Clint smirked as Natasha rolled her remarkably green eyes.

"Always a nuke." She grumbled.

"…that Rafael wants." Clint continued. "He went so far as to kidnap Governor Santos' nine year old daughter, Mariana, as leverage." Natasha's eyes darkened. Young girls were a sensitive subject for the Black Widow, especially when they were used for criminal purposes. "Rafael and Santos are making the trade in two days at his reelection party; Mariana for the nuke codes." Hawkeye summarized. Natasha nodded, hopping off the small bed. She grabbed the few pillows off the couch, using two to prop up her partner's steadily swelling knee and the other two to lean against. She lay down with her head beside her hawk's ribcage, her fiery hair splayed out beneath her and her feet dangling off the edge. She could feel him tangling his fingers in her wet hair while she skimmed the file.

By one in the morning his fingers had stilled and she knew he'd fallen asleep. The Russian assassin remained awake, memorizing her brief for the next hour.

At two, an hour before their designated departure time, Natasha moved off of the bed, ghosting toward the closet, quietly so as not to wake Clint up. He needed as much sleep as he could get, especially since he'd be piloting the plane. Folding into her cat suit had proven something that had become increasingly easy for her. She brushed out her hair, each curl bouncing back into place immediately when it came free of the brush. By 2:20, when she had done everything she could, including packing for Clint and she couldn't procrastinate waking him up any longer, she gently shook him awake, ducking out of the way when his instinctive punch flew. He pulled on his battered Kevlar suit, sliding on his sunglasses before following Natasha out the door and to the Quinjet hangar.

They boarded the aircraft, Clint immediately heading for the pilot's seat. Before he sat down, Barton captured Natasha's face with his hand, thumbing over the dark circles under her eyes.

"You needed sleep." she whispered. He sighed.

"Sleep now, Tasha." He replied silently, kissing her quickly before taking his seat and speaking into the microphone. Natasha smiled slightly after him, curling up in the co-pilot's seat, drifting off as the plane took to the air. "Я тебя люблю." She heard before she fell asleep. '_I love you too.'_ She thought to herself. She didn't know when she started admitting the childish emotion to herself. But she had. And what scared the Red Room victim the most was that she didn't mind.

**REVIEW IF YOU WANT ME TO CONTINUE.**


	7. Chapter 7

"Santos' mansion is here," Clint said, circling the location with a red marker.

"And Rafael's house?" Natasha asked, loosening her grip on her black coffee as she leaned forward to get a better look at the map.

"Here," Clint answered, marking a dot on the corner of Ave Este 8 Street. She nodded contemplatively, taking a sip of her sickeningly strong coffee. Clint twirled the marker on the safe house issued dining table, waiting for Natasha to make the next call. She slid the coffee across the table to her partner as she contemplated what they could accomplish at five-thirty in the morning.

"I say we get the scouting over with. By then, at least some shops and restaurants should be open." She decided. Clint nodded.

"My thoughts exactly." He mocked, smirking at the red head. She rolled her eyes, lifting her duffle bag onto the table and searching through it for inconspicuous civilian clothes. Clint stood by the sink, finishing off Natasha's drink in one swallow, hunching over the counter as he coughed. "Needs sugar." He gasped, letting the metal cup clatter into the sink.

"Of course it does." She laughed, pulling her curly hair up in a ponytail while she waited for her partner to change.

"Who are we?" he asked as he pulled a dark grey shirt over his head. She sifted through their files, looking for their fake ID's and driver's license. She arched a thin eyebrow at him, holding up two driver's licenses.

"Sam and Eleanor Reese." She replied. Clint chuckled, pulling the hem of his shirt down over his belt. He took the ID and driver's license from Natasha, looking down at her questioningly. She wrapped her hand around the back of his neck, pulling his lips down on hers in response.

"Married, honeymoon it is." He muttered, breaking the kiss first. She looked at him with an amused expression, taking his hand and leading the way out the door.

The American couple strolled seemingly aimlessly down the street, walking the route from their safe house, to the Santos mansion, to Rafael's house at apparent leisure. As they walked passed Julien Santos' colossal house, they slowed their pace a bit more.

There was a family in that house who were missing a little nine year old girl named Marissa. A little girl who's fate lie in the hands of two assassins who, at the same time, needed to insure that Jose Rafael didn't get a certain set of nuclear launch codes from a certain governor.

Clint squeezed Natasha's hand, knowing where her thoughts were. They definitely were not on the eight front facing windows, four balcony doors, or the two visible skylights that Barton had noticed.

"Мы вернем ее домой Таша." He whispered in Russian, pulling her away from the mansion.

'_We'll get her home Tasha.'_

"Find an entrance?" she asked quietly after a few minutes. He nodded.

"Plenty." He told her, eyes on her flaming hair as it caught and reflected the rising sun. She nodded. '_Good.'_ Clint touched his lips to the top of her head, pulling her against his side as they crossed the street. "Food, then shopping?" Natasha nodded again. Clint began humming Moby's Extreme Ways, setting off in the direction of one of the restaurants he'd noticed on the map.

Natasha watched disgustedly as Clint shoved a sandwich made of more types of meat than she could count into his mouth.

"That is truly disgusting." She said, taking a polite bite out of her own, less filled sandwich. Clint shrugged, swallowing the enormous mouthful of meat and bread. "You're going to choke." She continued, taking another bite. Clint ignored her, promptly polishing off his food. By the time Natasha had finished her food, Clint's hand had turned blood red from being continually slapped away from her food. He slapped enough money down on the table to cover the meal, stomping out of the restaurant ahead of Natasha, who rolled her eyes at her partner's childish antics.

She caught up with him to see him leaning up against a boutique shop window, looking as though nothing had happened.

Clint and Natasha had walked through the front door of the small boutique, Eleanor draped over her 'husband' like any typical newlywed. Sam had paused his conversation with Eleanor in English to address the clerk in Spanish, only to quickly return to his previous conversation.

"Te puedo ayudar?" the clerk asked heatedly.

'_Can I help you?'_

Natasha quieted her giggling and turned to the agitated woman.

"Si. Necesito un vestido para una fiesta." The red head assassin smiled sweetly.

'_I need a dress for a party.'_

"Elysa le ayudara." The lady replied, waving over a younger lady.

'_Elysa will help you._'

"Gracias." Natasha replied, following after the smaller girl, leaving Clint at the mercy of the clerk.

Clint had somehow managed to remove himself from the conversation with the irritating employee, walking quickly towards the dressing room his partner had disappeared into to wait while she tried on countless dresses until the part she played was satisfied with the decision. Sam had repeatedly asked his significant other to show him the dress, and Eleanor had flat out refused, insisting she looked horrible in it.

"Mostrarle." The assistant insisted from the other side of the curtain. He knew Natasha had nodded when there was no response.

'_Show him.'_

The maroon curtain slid aside, revealing Natasha standing in the small mirrored room in a blinding image of breathtaking beauty.

The silky scarlet gown dropped to her feet, hiding her out of place combat boots from view. The shade of red matched that of her hair perfectly, setting off her cream colored skin. It's single sleeve crossed across her chest, disappearing around the back. Clint swallowed thickly and Natasha turned, revealing the back of the dress, or lack thereof. The sleeve had bled into a strip of fabric that ran from the base of her back to the floor. He blinked once, eyes finally meeting hers. Natasha watched amusedly as he swallowed again, speaking to clerk who had gravitated towards them to figure out why everything had suddenly gone quiet.

"Cuanto?" he asked the woman behind him, eyes never once deviating from his partner's.

'_How much?' _

With that Natasha had slipped behind the curtain again. Clint fumbled with his wallet, blindly handing the woman his credit card as he stared at the fluttering velvet that shielded the Black Widow from view.

The bitter clerk had unceremoniously stuffed the red dress into a bag, held it out to Natasha and waved them on their way. Natasha continued giggling until the door closed with the ringing of a bell and she stopped immediately, breaking into a fit of laughter. Clint closed his eyes, reveling in the sound of her laugh.

"Your turn." She told him once she'd stopped laughing. His smile dimmed considerably as he was dragged along by his acting partner to a shop directly across the street.

"I don't need a suit." He protested. A short angry man had proceeded to poke his customer with pins until Clint was sure his tailored suit would soon match the color of Natasha's dress.

"Yes you do, Sam." Eleanor insisted, not for the first time.

"Ser aun!" The man barked in Spanish.

'_Be still!'_

Clint went rigid as a board, glaring at his 'wife' when he caught her cocky smirk.

"Usted no ha pagado me lo suficiente como para ocuparse!" The little man ranted.

'You have not paid me enough to deal with him!'

Natasha smiled sheepishly at the tailor, crossing her arms over her chest. He went back to work with more ferocity than before, taking every opportunity to stab poor Clint with a needle.

Hawkeye's suit was tailored to perfection and paid for. Clint didn't hesitate to speed out of the store, leaving it in the dust.

"What was your first cover?" Natasha asked, spooning some strawberry ice cream into her mouth. Clint reclined in the cheap, under stuffed SHIELD issued couch, leaning against the armrest, tipping the remains of his Hefeweizen into his mouth. Natasha sat up against opposite him, with Clint's bad leg elevated on her lap, and a bowl of ice cream resting on his shin.

"With SHIELD?" he clarified. She nodded, holding the cold spoon to her lips. "Jacques Monroe, French writer, with an affinity for beautiful scenery." He recited. "You?" he replied, spinning the bottle between his thumb and forefinger.

"Alesandra Russo, Irish model." She replied easily. He nodded; he had already known that, having been with her on every SHIELD mission she'd been on.

"Favorite country?" he asked curiously, wondering if it had changed since the last time he'd asked.

"Rome." She answered immediately. He smiled up at her.

"Mine too." He replied before she could ask. They were both quiet for a minute, Natasha debating whether or not to ask him the question she wanted to, and Clint waiting to see if she would ask whatever question he could tell was burning on her tongue.

"What was your favorite act at Carson's?" she asked quietly, with a borderline timid expression. He sighed, setting the beer bottle on the wooden floor of their safe house.

"The magic act that Barney would do." He swallowed thickly, eyes fluttering closed momentarily as he relived a memory. Immediately, Natasha regretted asking when she saw the gutting pain that had clouded his blue-grey eyes.

"Clint…" she warned, placing a hand on top of the one he had rested on the back of the couch near her head.

"He used to show me some of the secrets behind the magic tricks and I felt so… trusted. It never ceases to amaze me, how _trusting _and _naïve _I was." He spat.

"You were nine years old Clint." She whispered. He pushed himself into a sitting position, swinging his leg off her lap.

"I trusted _him."_ He whimpered, dropping his head into his hands. "And he stabbed me in the back. Literally." He laughed humorlessly. "I tried to run away, you know." He continued, while meanwhile, Natasha felt like she would be sick. "And my own brother…" he trailed off. "The knife caught just below my right shoulder blade. Didn't hit anything major, small mercy that. But I nearly bled out in the grass while my brother walked away." Natasha curled her arm around him, hugging him to her while he relived his morning of horrors.

"I will never walk away." She promised, leaning her forehead against his shoulder.

**THE REVIEWER TO FIRST POINT OUT THE BOURNE LEGACY ALLUSION GETS THE NEXT CHAPTER DEDICATED TO THEM.**

**LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THOUGHT ABOUT THIS CHAPTER.**


	8. Chapter 8

**THIS CHAPTER IS DEDICATED TO ****SHILA1378**** WHO WAS THE FIRST TO GUESS MOBY'S EXTREME WAYS.**

"Get in. Get the codes. Draw him out. Take him out." Natasha recited as she buttoned Clint's dress shirt. He nodded, handing the Black Widow her two Glock 26 guns to slide into the holsters he knew she had already fastened to her thigh underneath her red dress. "And get Mariana Santos home." She added, sighing.

"Hey, we've accomplished more with worse odds." He assured her, tilting her head up to meet his eyes.

"The last mission we had where we had a child's life in our hands…" she murmured.

"We got his little sister out, Tasha." He reminded her. She closed her eyes and leaned into his familiar touch. "We need to get going." He whispered.

"I know." She pulled away, holstering her guns, slipping a switch blade into her hand bag, and retrieving her shawl from the dining table. She turned to see Clint standing by the door, weapons case in hand.

"I'll meet you there." He said just as a taxi horn sounded. She straightened her posture, standing tall enough to kiss his scarred cheek before walking out the front door of an empty house where the taxi was picking up Eleanor Reese.

Clint watched from the window while Natasha slid into the front seat of the driver's car, waiting until they had driven away before running out the back door where he would cut through a few select alleyways, supposedly beating Natasha to the Governor's house.

As he neared the lively mansion, music and drunken laughter already emanating from it, he observed the side of the house he planned to scale to reach the roof where he had a perfect view of the ballroom through the skylight. Hawkeye declared it clear, running from his cover, hiding in the shadows as he made his way closer to the house. He stood at the base of the house, looking up, taking a deep breath before jumping up and latching onto the first handhold he felt.

Natasha sat on a stool at the bar, sipping daintily at her fruit cocktail. She looked down at it distastefully.

"Stupid sexist stereotypes." She grumbled to her partner. He huffed a laugh over the comm.

"_You've always hated those_." He allowed. "_Find him yet?" _The Black Widow scanned the room, feigning awe directed at a painting or mural every so often. Her eyes continued around the packed ballroom even when she recognized their mark.

"Third pillar from the left. Three disguised body guards. He has the girl with him." She murmured as she hid her lips from any prying eyes with her delicate little cocktail glass.

"_And Santos?_" he asked. She gave the room a quick once over, sighting the governor immediately. He stood by the grand staircase, in a sharp black tux, with his wife on his arm, teenage daughter standing in front of her parents with a little boy on her hip.

"Stairs." She informed him.

"_See him."_ He replied.

Clint watched from the skylight as Natasha set her glass down on the counter, moving gracefully towards Rafael. Years of training were the only thing keeping her face impassive, he knew, when she saw the young girl up close.

Mariana wore a sweater over her peacock blue dress, even though it was plenty warm enough. And judging by the way she kept fearfully pulling the sleeves over her hands, they were hiding more than a few injuries. The makeup, that wasn't noticeable from where Natasha had been sitting before was now clearly visible and undoubtedly hiding a black eye at the very least.

"Hawkeye…" she breathed silently.

"_I know."_ Was all he could offer from thirty feet above. The Black Widow crafted her features into a mask that many men had fallen victim to, walking past the criminal without so much as a flirtatious glance. "_Hook…" _Clint narrated over the comm.. Natasha leaned over the bar counter on the opposite side of the room, ordering a drink and smirking over her shoulder at their mark. "_Line…"_ She turned around once handed her drink, swirling the alcoholic beverage around in the glass. "_And sinker."_ He finished when Rafael began walking towards her.

"Where's your date?" Rafael asked in heavily accented English, coming up beside her. "Top Shelf Long Island Iced Tea." He requested from the bartender.

"English, impressive." Natasha observed, ignoring his question.

"Perhaps." He shrugged. "But you didn't answer my question." He reminded, accepting his drink from the bartender.

"I don't have one." She answered, finishing off her cocktail.

"I find _that _hard to believe." He replied flirtatiously.

"I have very…_high _standards." She explained dryly, motioning for a refill.

"I see. And what would your type be?" he kept his eyes trained tactfully on his drink.

"_Stupid pick up line."_ Clint scoffed. Natasha made a show of looking him up and down.

"I'll get back to you on that." She replied, smirking alluringly. She could hear Clint's low whistle in her ear.

"Would you like to dance Miss…" he trailed off meaningfully.

"Eleanor Reese." She supplied, extending her hand.

"Miss Reese. Es un placer." He said, kissing her offered hand.

'_It's a pleasure.'_

"El placer es que todo mio, Mr…" she replied.

'_The pleasure is all mine.' _

"Spanish, impressive." He parroted.

"Perhaps. But you didn't answer my question." She tilted her head, smiling slightly.

"Rafael," he answered. "No se meuven." He snapped at Mariana who had been led over by one of the disguised guards.

'_Don't move.'_

"Your daughter?" she asked with feigned curiosity once they had begun dancing.

"My niece." He corrected. She nodded as if that explained everything.

"So what do you do?" she asked conversationally.

"It's a family business." He replied.

"_I bet it is."_ Clint muttered.

"I see."

"And you?" he prompted.

"I'm a wedding planner." She answered without missing a beat.

"_Santos separated from his family. It's now or never Widow."_ Clint informed her. Her face remained perfectly inexpressive, as she looked up apologetically at Rafael.

"If you'll excuse me, for just a moment." She requested, stepping away. He nodded in allowance, stepping back. Natasha walked through the throngs of people, making her way in the general direction of the women's restroom. "Where is he?" she asked Clint, masking it with faked lip synching.

"_At your 7 o'clock."_ He answered immediately. The Black Widow made a lazy right turn, running right into the governor himself. He stumbled backwards, crashing to the ground with a seemingly clumsy and distressed woman on top of him.

"Lo siento, Gobernador Santos! Oh, mira su camisa!" Natasha fussed, rubbing her hands all over Julien Santos' wine stained suit.

'_I'm so sorry Governor Santos! Oh, look at your shirt!'_

_"_Esta bien, Seniora. Fue un accidente. Nada de lo que no puede ser reemplazado." He assured her, brushing her hands away.

_'It's okay, Miss. It was an accident. Nothing that can't be replaced.'_

"Lo siento." She repeated, smiling sheepishly as she backed away. "I got 'em." She told Clint, tightly gripping her hand bag that now contained a small slip of nuclear launch codes.

"_Good. Now get Rafael out of there and let's get that little girl home_." He sighed.

"Copy that." She replied, inwardly grimacing at the cliché phrase. Clint's derisive remark was, for once, cut off as Natasha approached their codes dealer. "I don't suppose we could step out for a moment? I'm feeling rather lightheaded." She told Rafael. His eyes flashed quickly between Mariana, where she supposed the Governor was now, and back to the beautiful woman requesting his company.

"Only a moment." He allocated. She smiled her thanks, pretending not to notice the inconspicuous wave he sent Mariana and the man he assumed was supposedly posing as his brother. "Do you mind?" he asked, gesturing behind him to the two people who had followed. Natasha sensed the question was more rhetorical than not.

"Of course not. They can come." She added for Clint's benefit. He cursed in her ear.

"_That'll make things difficult._" He muttered. Rafael held the door open for Miss Reese, letting her go ahead of him.

"Wow. Some backyard." she noted, once again for Clint's benefit.

"_On it. I'll be there in a minute."_

"It is quite impressive." Rafael agreed. "Although… I hear some say it's a haunted place." He added.

"Oh?" Natasha turned around, facing him with a forced look of startled curiosity.

"Si. I was told this story as a boy." he said.

"Enlighten me." She plead, sitting down on a stone bench. He hesitated.

"I wouldn't want to scare you." He hedged. She rolled her eyes.

"Please…" she scoffed. "I'm sure I can handle it." She persisted.

"If the lady insists." He sighed. He opened his subtly arrogant mouth to begin.

"He tenido suficiente de tus juegos Rafael. Donde esta ella?" Natasha peeked around Rafael to see the governor himself stalking towards them.

'_I've had enough of your games Rafael. Where is she?'_

"Hawkeye…" she muttered into her comm. "You seeing this?" she asked, slipping her guns from their holsters.

"_Yep."_ He answered. "_Waiting for a clear shot."_ He told her.

"Donde estan mis codigos?" Rafael countered, pulling his own gun and aiming it at Mariana as he grabbed the girl's arm and pulled her towards him.

'_Where are my codes?'_

"Derjarla ir. Yo los tengo." The father pleaded, setting his gun on the ground and raising his hands in surrender.

'_Let her go. I have them.'_

Natasha chose that moment to strike, sending the guard stumbling forward with a well placed kick to the back of the knee. She leaped, straddling his thick neck, locking her foot around the back of his head and spinning around, vaulting backwards, sending the dead man to the ground with a snapped neck.

"My, my, Miss Reese, quite the gymnast." Rafael deadpanned, repositioning his gun so that it was digging into the whimpering girl's temple. Natasha shrugged, keeping her guns trained on the criminal.

"_You've got thirteen armed hostiles surrounding you, Widow." _Clint muttered tensely.

"Got it." She breathed. Without taking her eyes off of the scene in front of her, she focused in on the shadows out of her peripheral vision, sighing agitatedly.

"Derjarla ir. Por favor." The dad whispered, tears welling in his eyes as he studied his daughter's tear streaked face. "Esta bien, Anna." He promised the child, hands still raised above his head.

"You learn, in this line of work, not to make such promises, _Governor."_ With that, Rafael whipped his arm around and fired at Santos before Natasha could react.

"Papi!" Mariana screamed as her father fell to the ground. The gun was immediately trained on the nine year old again when she lunged towards her dad.

"Search him." He snapped at three of the surrounding guards who had moved forward. They swarmed the dead man, looking through each of his pockets. One of the taller men stood first, shaking his head once at their boss. Rafael hissed a curse through his teeth, cocking the gun.

"I've got to get his focus off the girl." Natasha whispered to her partner.

"_Carefully, Widow_." He cautioned as she slipped the codes out of her purse.

"Looking for these?" Natasha taunted, perching her hand on her hip and smiling devilishly. He lowered the gun and turned to face the Black Widow just as three arrows lodged themselves in three of the men's throats, sending the heavy men crashing to the ground.

"Ah." Rafael sighed, realization dawning on his face as he analyzed the arrows. "Ms. Romanoff," he bowed mockingly before the Russian.

"Mr. Rafael," she responded.

"I suggest, Black Widow , that you surrender. There are ten of my men, and me. You cannot protect the girl and yourself." He attempted reason.

"Watch me." She growled, somersaulting out of the way as a barrage of bullets rained down around her. "Hawkeye!" she grunted, flipping off the ground, kicking an assailant in head, sending him stumbling backwards. She sent him to the ground with a round house kick to the temple. "I could use some help." She added, warily eyeing the men surrounding her. She searched calmly for Mariana and Rafael, groaning inwardly when she couldn't find them. "Change of plans. Find Rafael and the girl."

"_But you…"_he protested.

"Hawk!" she snapped.

"_Be careful." _He sighed.

"Yep." She grunted, dodging a rifle butt as a man lunged for her head. She snapped her elbow into her attacker's wrist, disorienting him with a backhand to the nose. She dropped down, swiping his legs out from under him, and bringing her elbow down onto his throat. She turned away as he choked for air, wrapping her arm around the man coming up behind her, snapping his head into her knee and flipping him on his back.

"Given up yet, _Black Widow?"_ A voice chuckled as the seven remaining men surrounded her, pressing the barrels of their guns into seven different areas of her abdomen.

"Hawk, he's here." She whispered.

"_On my way."_ He announced.

"Giving up isn't really my style." She replied easily.

"Well then…" he said shortly, waving a hand at the men. She swatted two of the guns out of the way, jumping into the air a twisting around to avoid the five other clips fired at her. Kicking one gun out of another's hands, she twisted in the air, landing on her hands and vaulting backwards, straddling the man opposite him. She swiped his gun, shooting him in the shoulder before flipping off of him and landing in an athletic crouch while the six remaining surrounded her again.

"Don't you feel this is getting repetitive?" she asked another enemy who had a gun pointed at her head. He ignored her, firing anyway. She rolled out of the way a second too late, wincing as hot lead tore through her bicep. She clamped her hand over it, trying to staunch the bleeding. Six gun barrels circled her head like some sort of diffident halo. Catching a movement in the shadows, she ducked knowingly just as the twang of a bowstring sounded and one by one they dropped dead.

"Perfect timing." She grumbled into the darkness, blue eyes came into view as Hawkeye stepped into the light, coming to her side and helping her out of the mud.

"Thanks. Sit rep." he looked her over. She pulled her hand away from her arm, sighing at the thick coat of blood soaking it.

"I'm good." She answered. He narrowed his eyes, but let it go at her silencing glare.

"Where are my codes?" Rafael growled in his accent. The two assassins turned slowly to face the enemy.

"Lower your weapons or the girl dies." Rafael threatened his finger tensing on the trigger. Clint nodded in a placating manner, setting his precious bow on the ground near his foot. "Hands up," he ordered. Natasha winced as she lifted her arms above her head, blood spilling down her arm, over her shoulder and down her chest, bleeding into the tattered fabric of her dress. "Where are the codes?" he barked.

"My front right pocket." Clint spoke up. Rafael puffed out his chest, walking arrogantly towards the archer, dragging Mariana by her matted hair.

As Jose Rafael leaned forward to search for the slip of codes that were not there, Hawkeye kicked his bow up into his left hand, cracking it into Rafael's arm, successfully knocking the gun away from Mariana's head. Regardless, the Desert Eagle handgun went off, lodging a bullet somewhere in the nine year olds abdomen, she screamed curling into a fetal position as she fell to the mud. Natasha scooped the girl into her arms, ignoring the shooting pain in her arm. What she had a harder time ignoring, was the numb sensation that swept over it. She envisioned where the bullet had gone in again, and cursed under her breath; if she had to guess she'd say the bullet had nicked the ulnar nerve. She set Mariana down in a patch of grass.

"Mariana, si?" she checked, forcing the girl to look at her. She nodded, tears streaming down her puffy cheeks. "Mariana, estas siendo muy vuelvo, de acuerdo?" Natasha assured her, noting that all feeling in her arm had disappeared. Mariana nodded again and Natasha sprinted back to her partner.

'_Mariana, yes? Mariana, you are being very strong. I'll be back, ok?'_

Clint grunted as Rafael kicked in his already damaged knee, shattering it completely by the feel of it. He pushed himself up out of the mud, supporting all of his weight on one leg as he stood his ground, waiting for Rafael to make the first move. As expected, Rafael lunged first and Clint easily dodged the blow, swinging his fist into his opponent's cheekbone. He could sense when Natasha joined them again seconds later and he briefly wondered what had happened to Mariana. He paid for his moment of distraction with a lip-splitting right cross which he countered by firmly striking Rafael's sternum with his palm. Clint inconspicuously gripped his previously hidden knife in his right hand, lashing out without warning. Rafael barely missed it, falling on his back. Barton limped over to him, handing his gun to his partner when she came up beside him.

"My men will come after you." Rafael warned, looking up at the two agents watching him with tired hatred.

"For their sake, you better hope the outcome is different than it was tonight." Natasha deadpanned.

"Esto no es adios." Rafael cautioned one last time before Natasha pulled the trigger. They left him, surrounded by his fallen men. A SHIELD clean-up crew would come for them within the hour.

'_This is not goodbye.'_

Natasha pulled Clint's arm around her shoulders so that she could help him carry some of his own weight. The marksman seemed to suddenly remember his partner's bullet wound and stopped attempting to walk immediately, rapidly undoing his tie before winding it around her arm.

"Sorry." He apologized automatically as he finished.

"I can't feel it anyway." She muttered dismissively, once again accepting some of his weight.

"You're going to do more damage to your arm." He protested, drawing back. "I can walk." He insisted.

"I appreciate your concern but now you need to let me patch you up. That's how we do this remember? You patch me up, I patch you up. So please cooperate." She recited. He sighed, draping his arm over her shoulder and letting her help him.

**ALSO.**

**1) THANK YOU TO THOSE OF YOU WHO CORRECTED ME ON MY SPANISH. I WILL GO BACK AND FIX THAT AT SOME POINT. FEEL FREE TO CORRECT ME AGAIN:)**

**2) TO THOSE OF YOU WHO POINTED OUT THAT ROME IS NOT A COUNTRY, YOU'RE RIGHT. **

**PLEASE REVIEW AND LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THOUGHT**


	9. Chapter 9

**FIRST I WANT TO APOLOGIZE FOR THE LONG WAIT. MY LAPTOP WAS BROKEN. SECOND, I WANT TO APOLOGIZE IN ADVANCE FOR SHORTNESS OF THIS CHAPTER.**

Clint shot up in the hospital bed, trying to remember where he was, an action that proved to be in vain between the pain medication he could feel running through his system and the sedative he knew he had been injected with.  
"Agent Barton..." a doctor chided, gently pushing him down onto the pillows.  
"Where am I?" the archer snapped.  
"SHIELD medical, I'm Dr. Wilks." the older man answered patiently, removing the IV from the disoriented Agent's wrist.  
"Natasha?" Clint asked, blowing out a sharp breath when moving caused harsh pain to shoot up his leg. The doctor grimaced.  
"Right over there." Wilks answered, pointing to the left side of the small recovery room. Clint turned his head and caught sight of his unconcious partner on the hospital bed beside him. He kicked off the thin sheet covering his body, swinging his good leg over the edge, twisting his hands into the scratchy sheets when the pain threatened to send him spiraling into blackness. The doctor cleared his throat nervously. "Mr. Barton, I don't think..." Clint's gaze snapped in the general direction of the quiet doctor.  
"Either you help me, or I do it myself." he hissed. The old man gauged the marksman's determination, turning away. The SHIELD doctor dragged a chair over to Natasha's bedside, sizing up the famous Hawkeye before helping him ease his broken leg off the glorified cot, slinging one arm around the injured man's waist and pulling Barton's arm over his shoulder. Clint dropped ungracefully into the chair, breathing heavily and fighting back the nausea that made his head swim.  
"Thanks." he grumbled. Doctor Wilks smiled. Clint looked over Natasha, frowning at the cast and sling securing her arm to her chest. "What's the damage?" he asked hesitantly.  
"There was a bullet lodged in the ulnar nerve. It caused some serious nerve damage. The surgery went well, and her arm will make a full recovery." he replied simply as he helped Clint prop his casted leg on the seat of another chair. "And your knee is shattered; three pins but I understand you've had worse." Clint shrugged, eyes never once leaving Natasha's pale body. Setting a bottle of what Clint assumed to be pain killer and a glass of water on the counter and leaning a set of crutches against the wall, Wilks left without a word.  
The next time Clint woke, his partner wasn't in her bed where she had been before he'd fallen asleep. He groaned, reaching behind him to grab the crutches, knowing that there was no chance of him being able to walk on his own. He made his way to the elevator, each jerking motion making relentless pain pulse through his leg. He stepped out onto the roof, warm air washing over his previously cold body. Natasha stood right where he expected her to be, pale skin nearly glowing in the midnight moonlight.  
"You shouldn't be out of bed Nat." he chastised. She looked over her uninjured shoulder at her partner. She could tell from one glance that he was in obvious pain. She looked back at the lit up city, holding tight to the metal railing.  
"Neither should you." she responded. "How's your leg?" she wondered quietly.  
"Had worse." he answered, coming up beside her.  
"Oh that's reassuring." she deadpanned.  
"How's your arm?" he asked evasively. She swallowed thickly and Clint watched her face carefully as it clouded with faint fear.  
"I still can't feel a thing." she brushed the exposed damaged fingers with her free hand, biting her lip.  
"Tasha..." he whispered, gently pulling her hand away. "The doctor said your arm would heal." he reminded. She nodded, studying a distant skyscraper.  
"What happened to Mariana?" she asked silently.  
"The paramedics told her mother that she should be fine." Natasha turned into Clint's chest, careful not to knock him off balance. He hugged her gently, always wary of hurting her. They stood on the roof, providing whatever comfort they could for the other, absorbing as much of their partner's pain as they could. Only when Clint was wavering dangerously on his one good leg did they finally pull away from each other and make their cautious way back to the recovery room.  
Clint got into the bed first, pressing his back as close to the metal wall as he could to make room for the Black Widow. Natasha slid in beside him, facing his chest to keep pressure off her arm. She was lulled to sleep by the constant 'thump, thump' of his heartbeat, while the scent of her hair had Clint drifting off just as quickly as she had.

**IF MY READERS WANT ME TO KEEP GOING WITH THIS UNIVERSE AFTER THIS STORY, LET ME KNOW. IF YES, LET ME KNOW IN A REVIEW WHAT EVENT YOU'D LIKE ME TO WRITE ABOUT.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Dedicated to ****Athena Writer 24601****, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!**

Natasha leaned against the wall, flexing her recently cleared arm as she watched their physical therapist -a Dr. Wilks who Clint had taken a surprisingly quick liking to- manipulated her partner's knee. She studied his face for any indication of pain. A slight twitch of his jaw when Wilks straightened his leg was the only imperceptible sign he showed. She stared disapprovingly as he lied when asked if it had hurt.

"Congratulations Barton." Wilks drawled, signing his scrawling signature at the bottom of Clint's report that would be sent to Fury.

"Thanks Wilks. For everything." Hawkeye replied seriously shaking hands with the friendly man, before following Natasha out into the grey hallway. The doctor smiled, watching his patients walk away.

Clint's disguised gait dissipated once they stepped over the threshold of his bedroom, and his faint limp reappeared. Natasha walked immediately to the bathroom, dropping to her knees beside the counter. Clint leaned heavily against the doorframe, waiting while she rummaged through the cupboard below the sink.

"On the couch." she instructed. He obediently walked towards the couch, sitting down and waiting. She leaned over his sore knee, pushing his gym shorts up and holding an ice pack against the joint. "You're such a liar." she scoffed when he relaxed slightly as the soreness subsided.

"So are you." he countered. She arched an eyebrow at him. "Oh, please Nat. You may have been able to hide it from Wilks, but not from me." he reminded dryly. She sighed, maneuvering his hand so that it held the ice pack in place. She sat beside him, both settling into companionable silence, the only sound being the ice grating against itself.

After a few silent minutes, Clint let the melting ice fall to the carpet, and took Natasha's hand into his, the calloused pad of his thumb ghosting over the healing stitches just above her elbow. Dropping her hand, he lifted his to trace across her clavicle, up her cheek and over her lips. "I almost…" he breathed.

He hadn't had any time to reflect on what had been quickly named the Battle for Manhattan between their shortened vacation and the mission. And now, in the calm silence, with nothing to focus on, it was catching up with him.

"Don't go there." She cut in, easily tracking his thoughts to what he- Loki- had almost done. "Clint," she whispered, kissing the palm of his scarred hand and pulling it away from her face. "You didn't hurt me." She denied. He pulled down the neckline of her tank top, revealing a pale scar along her shoulder that he had inflicted during their fight on the Helicarrier. He glared at her, '_I didn't?' _She growled, ripping his shirt up, displaying his bare chest. Laying her hand over a once deep scar she'd given him years ago during a anger driven sparring session, she fixed him with the same look he'd given her.

"I did this, you know?" she challenged in a low voice.

"That's different." He insisted, averting his stormy gaze. She readjusted the strap of her tank top, never once letting her eyes leave his face.

"How?" she countered. "Clint, scars make a person. This…" she touched her shoulder. "Is only evidence. Evidence that we can make it through anything this life can do to us. You _cannot _lose me. Not like that." She promised fiercely.

"Tasha." He exhaled, holding her emerald gaze with all the love he possessed. She tracked her hand through his hair, pulling him down to her level.

"Not ever." She mouthed, closing the minute gap between their lips. In that one kiss, she did her best to prove how much she trusted him, how much she loved him, and how much she truly needed him. His strong arm snaked around her waist, holding her to him. He pulled away first, if only barely.

"cпасибo." He murmured in Russian.

'_Thank you.'_

She tilted her head questioningly, '_For what?'_ A shadow of a smile flitted across his features.

"For fixing me." He answered, kissing her lightly.

"That's how we do this remember? You patch me up, I patch you up."

**That was the last chapter, sad?**

**Summary for my next story in this Universe:**

**Falling on Deaf Ears**

**Clint fired the arrow, ducking down as it exploded. The sonic boom bounced off the metal walls, piercing Hawkeye's hardly shielded ears. He collapsed, acknowledging one thing before the blackness enveloped him; ****_He couldn't hear anything._**


End file.
